


Desiderata

by Wizards_Pupil



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: An unapologetic example of my love for writing, Character Study, Covers the three films, Deep love of all things word, Dwalin likes to watch Ori, He uses them when he's worried or scared, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Ori POV, Ori doesn't understand dwarves sometimes, Ori loves words, Ori thinks adventures are more fun to read about, doesn't mention any deaths, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:47:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizards_Pupil/pseuds/Wizards_Pupil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ori supposed it had started by accident.</p><p>It had been formed solely out of nervousness, as such things are want to be. He’d only been fifty at the time. Not of age and not allowed to fight. He’d clutched his books to his chest and found himself quite frozen in panic that only the clueless and untrained can really understand.</p><p>It had been an orc attack. The screams filled the air and the shouts of battle lust had joined them. The noise had been horrible, and it had chilled Ori to his young and terrified heart.</p><p>In his panic he’d begun to do what he did best. He remembered literature. The poem that sprung to his mind had been one that Nori had shown him. It was a fierce battle ballad, and it felt like the only appropriate thing.</p><p>The words had worked an unfathomable magic on him. Recalling the lines distracted his mind and he found his body relaxing despite the horrible noises rising all around him.</p><p>With words, he didn’t have to think. He disentangled himself from the world he was trapped in and went somewhere else. Somewhere brighter and better.</p><p>After all, words were always easier to understand than humans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desiderata

Ori supposed it had started by accident.

It had been formed solely out of nervousness, as such things are want to be. It wasn’t a bad habit, or a destructive one, so he had never sought to stop. He’d been doing it for over forty years now, and he hardly understood why.  

It had started on a beautiful day that he had greatly enjoyed. He’d been returning home from the library which was one of the only places he was allowed to go unaccompanied. He’d had a new pile of books in his arm that he was flipping through when the warning sirens went off.

He’d only been fifty at the time. Not of age and not allowed to fight. He’d clutched his books to his chest and found himself quite frozen in panic that only the clueless and untrained can really understand.

He might have perished.

Thankfully, his salvation came with a: “Lad, do not just stand there!” In the form of a stout, ginger-haired, dwarf who grabbed his arm and jerked him back to the stalls. He stumbled and very nearly dropped his books as he was pushed unceremoniously into a nook under said stall. “Stay here and do not go out.” The dwarf had then stood up tall and drew two battle axes off his back. He had given one last look at Ori before rushing to the town’s defense.

It had been an orc attack. The screams filled the air and the shouts of battle lust had joined them. The noise had been horrible, and it had chilled Ori to his young and terrified heart.

He had wanted to drown it all out. Blocking his ears with his hands had not worked. He was unable to wedge himself any further under the stall and the panic had made his breath come in gasps.

In his panic he’d begun to do what he did best. He remembered literature. The poem that sprung to his mind had been one that Nori had shown him. Apparently his (Ori, not Nori’s) father had liked it. It was a fierce battle ballad, and it felt like the only appropriate thing.

 

> _Let not your courage fail you:_   
> _Be valiant, stout and bold;_   
> _And it will soon avail you,_   
> _My loyal hearts of gold._

The words had worked an unfathomable magic on him. Recalling the lines distracted his mind and he found his body relaxing despite the horrible noises rising all around him.

With poetry, he didn’t have to think. He disentangled himself from the world he was trapped in and went somewhere else. Somewhere brighter and better.

Dori and Nori knew of his habit, of course. It was hard to hide anything from his brothers when they didn’t watch you twenty four/seven. He had very few secrets to himself. He didn’t mind though. They often brought new books with beautiful words, so he would forgive them the lack of privacy.

He joined the company for reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of. He’d wanted to prove himself at the time, and it had sounded grand and mysterious. Just like a story he had read in the books he so loved.

Of course, grandiose adventures sounded far more grandiose in literature. Literature didn’t mention dirt, heat, or the discomfort of living in the wild. It didn’t mention fearing strange noises at night or the looks other dwarves would give whenever you spoke of poetry.

Adventures were more fun to read about.

Bilbo was the first of the Company to notice his love for literature and make a response. It seemed appropriate that the hobbit would observe the quietly spoken words. He too loved the magic of literature.

He too had been lured in by the grandiose glory of adventure.

 

> _infinity next to infinity,_   
> _but infinity curled on itself, a whirlwind_   
> _that whipped about the house and was gone,_   
> _rain in its wake, a smell of dirt_

“Franco.” Bilbo stated. Ori had not noticed the approach of the quiet hobbit because he was so lost in the wonder of the night sky. It was the one comfort they could all have on the journey. No matter where you were, regardless of what the land looked like, the stars would shine the same. They glew in the weary darkness, their light curling into the blue in a beautiful tapestry that made his fingers itch for quill and parchment.

He longed to capture the beauty of the world he saw. He didn’t understand why so many wanted to destroy it.

He turned his attention to the quiet, unassuming hobbit and offered a smile. Bilbo’s blue eyes were sorrowful-as always-and reflected the brilliance of the night sky. “Yes.”

“She has a beautiful way of writing the lost.” Bilbo tilted his head back and looked up at the night. “Were you using it to refer to the stars?”

“Yes.” Ori tilted his head upward, not caring that Dori was now looking at them. His oldest brother was always wary of the unknown. Bilbo was a large unknown. “It just seemed to fit.” He hadn’t really know he was talking. It had just slipped out. Poetry always just slipped out. It bubbled up inside him like froth on ale. Something light that he couldn’t contain in his body. He half suspected it was something written on his very bones, so deep was his connection to the words.

More eyes trained on him as he continued to talk to Bilbo. They discussed human composers and the sad quality that Franco always had. Ori paid the extra attention little heed. There were only one pair of eyes he should have liked to see, and they were firmly trained on the axe their owner was cleaning.

 

> _I wandered lonely as a cloud_  
>  _That floats on high o'er vales and hills,_  
>  _When all at once I saw a crowd,_  
>  _A host, of golden daffodils;_  
>  _Beside the lake, beneath the trees,_  
>  _Fluttering and dancing in the breeze_.

They traded lines when they were near each other. It was careless as the breeze and one of the only fun things to do while riding an endless distance.

“Continuous as the stars that shine.” Bilbo sighed dramatically with a flourish of his hand. He had to grab onto Myrtle’s mane to keep from slipping. Ori watched with a smile and a laugh that Bilbo returned with a larger smile.

“And twinkle on the milky way,” he replied dutifully. The plain stretched out endlessly before them. The heat of the sun was enough to make anyone miss the stars. He wanted to be able to drift away with them and soar over the plain. Anything to stop the endless trudging and bickering. He had thought the trolls would help to ease the company’s tension. It hadn’t.

“They stretched in never-ending line.” Ori’s head snapped up at the new voice. Bilbo was looking at the dwarf in surprise as well.

“Mister Balin, you like Sir William?” The elderly dwarf gave his head a nod as his eyes crinkled with a smile.

“Yes, he is a favorite of mine. It has been long since I met any other who knew his words.”

“Join us then?” Ori invited. He would never turn a word-lover away. Balin looked to Dwalin who gave his brother a nod and small smile. The elderly dwarf slowed his pony down so he could be nearer to Bilbo and Ori. Ori watched as Dwalin stared at his brother. He half imagined that there was a hint of longing in the pale green eyes. The gaze flickered to him and Ori felt his cheeks heat in a traitorous blush. A scarred eyebrow raised and Ori dropped his head.

“Along the margin of a bay.” He murmured. It was amazing how much more he could understand poetry than people.

 

> _“Hope” is the thing with feathers -_   
> _That perches in the soul -_   
> _And sings the tune without the words -_   
> _And never stops - at all -_

He grew to learn the different company members as they went. Mostly from observation. He was trusted to record the account of their journey, which meant he possessed a certain anonymity. He could observe without worry and say it was in the spirit of research.

He stared a lot. He would sketch them at night by the fire if they were lucky enough to have one. If not, he had to trust the stars and moon to light his illustrations.

He could watch when he sketched. Watch the small touches that always seemed to pass between Fili and Kili. The way their eyes would hold just a second longer with each others gaze than anyone else. It was a loyalty he could never quite seem to capture. A depth of adoration that no medium could capture.

He watched how Thorin would lay his hand on Balin or Dwalin’s neck in companionable friendship  whenever they poured over old maps and determined routes to take. He watched the pale blue eyes turn warm and caring whenever they looked at Fili and Kili. The closed off king was only ever expressive in his eyes. He used silence and stares were others would use words and smiles.

He watched how Bifur would smile faintly anytime Bofur sang or when Bombur got especially excited about dinner. He watched the brothers tend to their older cousin with a devotion that was tender and certain.

He watched Bilbo gazing at everyone one in mild confusion and obvious longing. He watched how he sat at the edge of the group and never quite joined unless Gandalf, Bofur, Balin, or he went to Bilbo first. He watched the hobbit pretend not to care what Thorin said and long to express himself and the reasons he had joined.

He watched Dwalin train with his axes with a joyous abandon that he envied. One that he wished he could join. An abandon Ori only ever felt when he was writing, reciting, or sketching. He watched the warrior tend to his weapons every night and wished that someone would have that care with him.

He watched and wondered if the journey could succeed. If it was more than a simple fools wish.

 

> _Hush. On the edge_   
> _Of the woods I do not hear_   
> _Words which you call_   
> _Human; but I hear_   
> _Words which are newer_   
> _Spoken by droplets and leaves_   
> _Far away._

Rivendell was beautiful in a way that only magic and words could really make. It was gorgeous and old and moved with the trees in a ceaseless dance. It was full of light and poetry and music.

The food was horrid.

Still… Ori would have remained there long and been quite happy. He caught the merest glance of the library and very nearly swooned.

He never set foot in it. He could practically feel Thorin’s discontent, and the other dwarves discomfort would have been obvious to even the trolls they had met. He did not want to give even the illusion of enjoyment. He didn’t want to fit in any less than he already did.

Ori was very aware he didn’t fit in. Not really, he was too young, too quiet, too homely. He enjoyed knitting more than fighting, and writing more than drinking. He tried to be loud and _rude_ but it left him unsatisfied. He made rather a poor dwarf in that regard. He longed to be as loud and happy, and _big_ as Fili, or Kili, or Bofur, but it never came. He would simply watch them and dream of a day when he could be that confident with who he was.

A day when he could speak the words he loved loudly and proudly without feeling like his heart would beat out of his chest in fright.

Dwalin was the epitome of what he wished to be. What a dwarf should be. He was a renowned warrior and probably the most confident person Ori had ever had the pleasure of meeting. He was unwavering in what he believed, and never hesitated when making it known. He was fine with pursuing his interest and unashamed in all the he did.

The celebration of their first night was loud and long. He’d enjoyed clapping along to Bofur’s tune, even if the lyrics hadn’t been terribly inspired.

When he went to his bedroom that night he found a cloth wrapped bundle resting on his pillow. He plucked at the string that bound it (a tightly wound, red, cotton) and let the coarse material slip off. Inside was a beautifully bound, red leather book. The title consisted of five khuzdul runes. Gulûb

 _Words_.

He flipped the cover open and spread the book on his lap. It had been written in blue ink on thick, cream colored paper. It smelled vaguely of lilacs and made Ori’s hands tremble with delight.

It was a book full of dwarf poetry. A wonderful gift so far from Ered Luin.

He flipped to the back of the book and felt a frown tug his lips down. There was no note. He checked the cloth it had been wrapped with and still found no note.

He settled back in the bed and turned to the first page. It was fitting. Such a great gift would be anonymous. It was probably from Dori.

 

> _Whose woods these are I think I know._   
> _His house is in the village though;_   
> _He will not see me stopping here_   
> _To watch his woods fill up with snow._   
> _My little horse must think it queer_   
> _To stop without a farmhouse near_   
> _Between the woods and frozen lake_   
> _The darkest evening of the year._

Youngest.

It was insulting. He was not younger than Kili, thank you very much. Even a goblin king should be able to see that.

And what a sight the goblin king was. He almost stopped the words. It had taken Ori several breaths to get past his shock of _dear-Eru-what-is-that-monstrosity_ to think of anything past the fright.

“Bring out the bone-breaker! Start with the youngest.” The misshapen goblin that had been holding Ori pushed him forward and he’d nearly fallen before he realized just what was happening. Dori and Nori jerked violently in their holds and tried to cry out a protest. Ori stood as tall as he could and squared his shoulders.

He would not betray his prince. He would not say that he wasn’t youngest and he would not reveal their mission.

 _Do not go gentle into that good night,_   
_Old age should burn and rave at close of day;_   
_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

He mumbled the words under his breath, gathering courage from the harsh syllables. Thorin stepped forward on his right and Ori was pushed back into Dwalin. Strong arms held him up and steadied him.

“Be ready to fight, laddie.” The dwarf warrior whispered in his ear.

He mumbled the words faster.

 

> _Off go the crows from the roof._   
> _The crows can’t hold on._   
> _They might as well_   
> _Be perched on an oil slick._

The flight had taken most of the night, and Ori was not certain how he had survived it.  He had gotten hold of Dwalin’s war hammer somehow and he had managed to kill a few goblins with it. The orcs had been a horrible shock, and they’d been driven up a tree.

He had been uncertain what was worse. Dangling from a tree by his brother’s leg, or watching his other brother, and company, fight off the fire, wargs, and orcs.

Falling had certainly not been fun. He hadn’t cared for the flying either.

When they had finally reached land again he returned Dwalin’s war hammer with a stammered thank you and a blush that he’d been utterly unable to dissipate. He’d tried to turn away but he’d slipped on the slick rocks. He had no idea why they were slick, but they were. He lurched forward, towards the edge. The edge that was very sharp, and whose bottom was very far down. Very far down.

A startled squeak was all he’d been able to do. He pitched forward and he heard his brother shriek. Words flittered around his mind like the wings of hummingbirds. Too quick to focus on. All he could get was a blurred sense of finality. He would meet his end through the air. He would fly, then die.

A strong arm wrapped around his waist and jerked him back into a solid chest. He lost his air and he gasped in utter fright. He wheezed frantically and clutched at the arm around his chest. There was no air to be had and the world started to spin because of it.

“Fast rode the knight,” breath washed over his cheek and a rough beard brushed against his skin. Dwalin’s deep voice rumbled on, and the words filled Ori up as they always did. “With spurs, hot and reeking.”

“Ever waving an eager sword.” Ori murmured in response. He didn’t know where he found the breath, but he was so grateful for it. He mumbled on, letting the words replace the needed air. Letting them work their magic over him. He traded lines with Dwalin, and let the dwarf hold him up.

Perhaps falling was not the only way to fly.

 

> _What happens to a dream deferred?_   
> _Does it dry up_   
> _Like a raisin in the sun?_   
> _Or fester like a sore--_   
> _And then run?_

Dori did not leave Ori’s side for the next few days. All the way down the Carrock and to Beorn’s house he was trailed by his two brothers.

He was oddly not aware of the presence. He found his mind slipping back to Dwalin’s voice as he whispered a poem to calm Ori’s pounding heart. He could feel the dwarf’s beard scratching against his cheek, and the strength in the arm that had held him close and safe. Far away from the edge of the cliff. The worry that had filled the pale green eyes as they examined him. The words never stopping while he examined.

Ori had never been held like that. He’d been oddly annoyed when his brother had dragged him from Dwalin’s hold and inspected him himself.

He wondered how Dwalin had known it would calm him, and why he had chosen that poem.

Mostly he wished to hear the gruff, rumbling voice speak more words. He wanted to know what they meant. To know why he wanted to slip back in the arms and speak more words. To get lost in their magic and be safe from falling.

Falling was dangerous. Words were always easier to understand than humans.

 

> _What songs will they follow? Whatever the wood warbles, whatever storm or harm the border promises, whatever calm.  
>  Let them go. Let them go traceless through the high grass and into the willow- blur,  
>  traceless across the lean blue glint of the river, to the long dark bodies of the conifers, and over the welcoming threshold of nightfall._

Ori had a feeling he would never really remember his time in the forest. The woods were dying, and they were spreading their misery to anything that dared to enter their domain.

The spiders had been terrifying, and he’d had no sight of his brothers during the debacle. Dwalin had been at his side, and they’d managed to bring down one of the massive beast without their weapons.

“Lle anta amin tu?” (Do you need help.) They were paired off and put into cells that were most likely intended to only hold one elf a piece. Bilbo was no where to be seen.

“Iire lye auta?” The elves spoke without care. They clearly thought that no dwarf would know their language.

Ori didn’t want them to know how wrong they were.

“You can leave whenever you want. You’re not locked up.” He muttered before turning and pressing his back against the door. He tried to look like he wasn’t eavesdropping.

“Listen well laddie.” Dwalin murmured in the back of the cell. He set down and examined his armor. It had a nasty tear and Ori could see blood leaking from it. He crossed the small amount of floor between them and knelt by the warrior’s side. He pushed the fabric aside and peered at the cut.

“Don’t waste time with me. Li-”

“I can listen while I work, Mister Dwalin. I’m quite the multi-tasker.” Ori tore a strip of his undershirt and cleaned the cut. He’d have to use another strip as a bandage. Perhaps he had been too hasty in his earlier assessments. Perhaps it wasn’t about fitting in. Perhaps it was about finding the courage not to fit in. That was what he wanted.

“You are that.” The dwarf settled back and let Ori go to work. He didn’t think about how warm Dwalin’s skin was, or how strong his body was. He focused on the elvish words and the strange lack of words in his own head.

 

> _I was walking again_   
> _in the woods,_   
> _a yellow light_   
> _was sifting all I saw._

Ori didn’t know where Dwalin came from, but he was grateful for the dwarf’s sudden appearance. Why Bard was aiming at _him_ , he would never understand. Of all the dwarves piled on the shore he had to be the least alarming. He had been pouring water out of his shoe for Mahal’s sake.

It was oddly flattering and terrifying at the same time. His blood thrummed under his fingers and for a moment, he nearly tasted death over the most pointless thing. He had faced trolls, goblins, orcs, wargs, spiders, and elves… would he die by a man?

Then Dwalin appeared. The dwarf towered over him with a lump of wood and a scowl that would have made a warg back up in fright.

He was a man from Laketown and he had a boat. He could cross the river.

Balin used the magic of his own words and secured them passage on the barge. He manipulated the sentences with a simple smile and feigned interest. He was a master of spoken things.

It took Ori a long moment to notice Dwalin had left his side. When he did notice the warrior’s absence the knowledge settled in his gut with a heavy weight.

He didn’t understand the dance they seemed to do. Danger seemed to be one of the only time the large dwarf acknowledged him. When he was in danger, they were alone or the words were flowing.

He wrapped his wet arms around his chest and joined Bilbo. The hobbit offered him a soggy smile. He returned it and tried to understand what he was feeling.

 

> _And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me_   
> _As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,_   
> _With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,_   
> _For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste._

“You did good lad.” Ori lifted his head muzzily and tried to see clearly through the fog of exhaustion. Adventures should only be read about. They were so wearisome to live. Erebor shone like a spike of mithril in the distance, promising a home in the desolate waste outside of the impoverished town.

Dwalin peered down at him with a frown that he always wore. One Ori was starting to realize wasn’t actually a frown but a mask.

“What?” Dwalin huffed and looked away. His arms were crossed over his chest in a manner that showed how built they were.

“You. You’ve done well. You handle my hammer well and you fight bravely.” The dwarf sat by his side and glared at the fire for a time that held a small eternity. Ori had nothing to fill the silence or cold air with.

“You knew what you had to do though the wind pried...” The words were a whisper and Ori barely heard them. They made his heart race and his blood thrum. His breath melted into the air and he found himself replying without really knowing why.

“With its stiff fingers at the very foundations.” Dwalin’s face softened though he still looked at the fire. The flames sparked into the night air in a haze of color that Ori itched to capture. The light made shadows dance across Dwalin’s face in a manner that was almost a dance.

“Though their melancholy was terrible. It was already late enough,”

“And a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stones…”

Dwalin’s head tilted so that he was almost looking at Ori. His blood burned and he half wondered if he was too near the fire. It felt more as if the words were burning him though. They were leading to something, but he didn’t know what.

He could understand the words but not the dwarf speaking them.

“The stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized…”

The fire crackled and Bofur’s snore filled the tiny camp. Ori turned to see what had caused the noise, and when he returned his gaze to his side, Dwalin had left.

 

> _The burnt, blurred world_   
> _where does it end—_   
> _The wind kicks up the scent_   
> _from the stables_   
> _where horseshoes hold_   
> _not just luck, but Beyond._   
> _But weight. But a body_   
> _that itself burns,_

Smaug was evil. He had left death in his wake, and Ori couldn’t help wonder what the actual source of the sickness that seemed to be spreading across Middle Earth was. He had seen such wanton death, hate, and disease since he joined the company.

Smaug, while evil and large was clearly not its source. He was a result. It wasn’t until the army of their ‘enemies’ spread across the desolation of the deceased dragon that he began to suspect the true source.

He loved stories of adventures. He had forgotten why he loved them though. It was the truth of them, that after so much evil, so much hate and death, life could only go on if people believed enough. The words always spoke of courage to do what was right because they had something to be courageous for.

Ori had a company of twelve other dwarves he felt brave for. They were all different, unique and a little broken. He had watched them all through the journey and learned that they each watched in their own way.

It was no bad thing to die with friends.

“They’ll come for the gates first.” Dwalin stated as tall and proud as the kingdom they defended.  His brothers stood at his sides and Ori braced his legs. He would fight bravely without need of words.

He would find his courage in his companions. “Spread out!” Thorin ordered gruffly from the front. Ori stepped back and watched the king lead the dwarves from the Iron Hills with a relieved breath. There was no madness left in Thorin’s pale eyes.

“Don’t go far.” Dwalin said, suddenly beside him. Green eyes looked down at him and seemed to trap Ori to the ground.

“I won’t. Dori will ke-” Dwalin shook his head and stepped closer.

“No,” he swallowed and glanced at the quickly approaching enemies. They had moments at most. “Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because,” He paused and Ori felt his fingers tingle with possibility. The words sparkled in his mind, fluttery promises and hopes. “Because-- I don’t know how to say it: a day is long.”

“And I will be waiting for you.” Ori’s voice faded into the wind and he felt himself understand as he met the green gaze. He took the towering dwarf’s hand and squeezed it with a timid smile. The possibilities danced with the wind around them, a promise that might be met if they survived.

He wondered where Dwalin had learned the poems, and why he hadn’t used his own words.

 

> _I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where._  
>  I love you simply, without problems or pride: I  
>   love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this,  
>  in which there is no I or you, so intimate that  
>  your hand upon my chest is my hand,  
>  so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.

The arms were warm around him, once again holding him from an edge. This one far more precarious than the last had been.

He trusted them now as he had then. He welcomed them.

The night was silent against the explosive backdrop of stars. Ori was as well, taking in their beauty with eyes turned to the heavens and a open heart. He wrapped his hands around the arms that held him and tilted his head back until it was resting on a warm shoulder. There was a kiss pressed to his neck while he stared. Words were whispered and he felt as though he might fly.

 _Dwalin_ he sighed into the night air. The arms tightened around him and Ori tilted his head. He pressed his cheek against the chest and looked up at the pale green eyes that saw nothing but him.

No more words were spoken. In the end, his love for words hadn’t ever been about what was written or spoken. It had always been what was unsaid. What he had never been able to find the words for.

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it. I really just wanted to write about Ori's mind during the quest. I think he would try to be loud and fit in but the scholar in him would find it unnatural. I don't know if the story really works, but I like it. 
> 
> The poems used from beginning to end are:
> 
> The Song of Braddock’s Men  
> The Keepsake Storm by Gina Franco  
> I Wandered lonely as a cloud by William Wordsworth  
> Hope is the Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson  
> The Rain in the Pine Woods by Gabriele D'Annunzio  
> Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost  
> Do not Go Gentle into that Good Night by Dylan Thomas  
> Crows in a Strong Wind by Cornelius Eady  
> Fast Rode the Knight by Stephen Crane  
> A Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes  
> Children in a Field by Angela Shaw  
> Changing Everything by Jane Hirshfield  
> Clancy Of The Overflow by Clancy  
> The Journey by Mary Oliver  
> From Book of Hours by Kevin Young  
> Don't go Far Neruda
> 
> And, of course. Desiderata by Max Ehrmann.


End file.
